


Let Me Have the Other Half of That Broken Moon

by velvetcat09



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally repressed Gintoki, GinHiji - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Red String of Fate, canon spoilers, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26838760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcat09/pseuds/velvetcat09
Summary: “Do you believe in fate?”“No. Never.”=============“This is Hanano Ana reporting live from Kabuki-cho. There have been multiple reports as well as sightings of this new phenomenon just happening in Edo.”“People are reporting sightings of strings all over Edo. It said to be tied around a person’s finger and stretching as far as into outer space. What’s peculiar about this phenomenon is how only the person is able to see the string. Nobody else can see it.”
Relationships: Hijikata Toshirou/Sakata Gintoki
Comments: 8
Kudos: 115
Collections: Gintoki's Birthday Bash 2020





	Let Me Have the Other Half of That Broken Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Cover Art by Me (velvetcat09)  
> 1st Art by [sakunmit](https://twitter.com/sakunmit)  
> 2nd Art by [nicomyrna](https://twitter.com/NicoMyrna_)
> 
> Yes the title is a reference to Sakura Mitsutsuki by Spyair

* * *

Gintoki stares with bleared eyes at the ceiling. He had woken up before Shinpachi came as his usual alarm clock, even way before his own Justaway alarm clock went off. It pisses him off that he wakes up so early and without any notice from anything. One moment he was in dreamland inhaling imaginary parfaits, the next he could feel the crust of his eyes as he opened them. The only thing he has since opening his eyes to that damn ceiling is this feeling of _something has happened_ . But he can’t pin-point it on anything. It’s a feeling and that’s _fucking_ it. Pisses the hell out of him. He’s debated with his own stubborn self to just fully wake up and grab his morning dose of strawberry milk. Debated over going for morning leak as well (surely his bladder will agree?), but this sense of _happening_ grounds him to his futon like steel-anchor. Like a transparent Sadaharu pinning him down. 

Gintoki glares at the mold stain on the corner of the ceiling.

He turns off his alarm before it blares into the entire room. He hears someone entering the front door and waits for his door to be slid open. But that last thing never happened. He hears Kagura being woken up next door and the sound of TV being turned on. 

Gintoki glares again at the mold stain.

Fed up with this nagging sense and ignored by the brats, Gintoki wakes himself up, this time physically.

“Oi—”

Gintoki still has his lingering glare from earlier when his eyes land on Shinpachi glued to the TV screen. Kagura yawns in the background.

“This is Hanano Ana reporting live from Kabuki-cho. There have been multiple reports as well as sightings of this new phenomenon just happening in Edo.” Kagura somehow doesn’t say anything and sits next to Shinpachi. Since he’s still ignored, Gintoki plops himself on the other sofa. _What’s with today’s news that’s so interesting, huh?_

“People are reporting sightings of strings all over Edo. It said to be tied around a person’s finger and stretching as far as into outer space. What’s peculiar about this phenomenon is how only the person is able to see the string. Nobody else can see it.” In the background, they could see people on the street scrambling around. Some dodging invisible thing, the other some dodging those dodging the invisible thing like some weird pantomime parade going on.

“Wha—” Gintoki pulls on a face when he’s immediately shushed by Shinpachi.

“We are now live with one correspondent who reported that, apparently, knows where his string leads to. Harumaki-san, please share with us the story.” The camera pans on a couple standing next to Hanano Ana.

“Ah, yes. I woke up today seeing a red string attached to my finger, it’s jumbled all around our house, but I was really glad that the one on the other end of my string is none other than my wife.” The man shows up his left hand ring-finger, clearly he’s seeing something that no other is seeing.

“But, Harumaki-san, there is nothing on your finger.”

“Yes, that’s what my wife said at first as well. We argued about it until I tried pulling the string. My wife believed me when she felt the tug. It seems I’m the only one who can see and touch the string. I tried putting it on my wife’s hand and that’s when she was able to see the string. It’s a miraculous feeling to know that you’re married to your fated love.” The man then proceeds to laugh bashfully with his wife smiling right by his side, both showing their hands as if any other person could see what they see.

“We have yet to know the nature of this phenomenon. Edo top scientists are still figuring out the cause and explanation of this occurrence. As of now, people who are able to see their strings seem to be all across the street trying to follow where their strings lead to. Please be careful if you are about to partake in the action, as there have been multiple reports where people disregard health and safety regulations. This is Hanano Ana, reporting live from Kabuki-cho.”

“Red-string of fate, hah?” Gintoki sneers but he can feel something is not right in the atmosphere. Shinpachi huffs.

“Aneue,”

“Anego?”

“She woke up screaming today. She said there’s a red string on her left hand.” Shinpachi folds his arms in thoughts, Gintoki picks on his nose. _Tch. So?_

“She was excited at first about this fated red string until she opened the door. We saw Kondo-san on the utility pole again.” Shinpachi looks deep in thought. “But then, instead of throwing pots and pans at Kondo-san like usual, Aneue stood in silence. She looked shocked; I rarely see that on her face. She then went inside again.” _Oh?_

“I think the person on the other end of Aneue’s string is Kondo-san.”

As if on cue, both Gintoki and Kagura break into laughter. Slapping the sofa, clutching on their stomachs, even Kagura sheds some tears. They laugh for the entire morning. Somewhere in the middle, Shinpachi joins the laughing fit because, no matter how you try to be solemn about it, you cannot _not_ laugh at that. Oh, life works in mysterious ways and that certainly made their morning. _Beautiful_.

They got exhausted after about 15 minutes or so, Kagura lying on the sofa and Shinpachi still going ‘hehe’ every now and then near her. Gintoki decides to flush his last bit of laughter down the drain along with his bladder content so he leaves the room. He clicks his tongue when he eyes the floor, minding what’s strewn around haphazardly. He hops around avoiding tripping.

“Oi, Kagura, clean up after you do your shitty home economics project, would you? Honestly, what are you even making with these? You don’t even go to school.” Gintoki kicks around some threads near the bathroom door before halting.

He feels two pairs of eyes drilling the back of his head.

“What project?”

“What are you saying, Gin-san?”

Gintoki looks down on his feet. He looks around the room, following the red lines. He looks at his left hand. On his ring finger.

So, something really _did_ happen.

* * *

He manages to escape under the pretense of a job. (“Gin-san! Do you have the red strings as well?!” “Gin-chan! Who’s your soulmate?!” “I don’t know! And don’t say soulmate, oi! Where did you even learn that?!”) The two let him go but there was no mistaking the knowing grin all over their faces. He almost tripped on his way out of the house over those _dastardly_ strings. He curses, _it’s not real, oi! Not real!_

He’s tested it. In the bathroom while brushing his teeth and all. The strings are tangible enough for him to touch them, but at the same time he can phase through them if he so wishes it. The strings are _there_ when they loop around objects, but aren’t _there_ when Shinpachi steps on them. It’s bizarre as hell and Gintoki can’t even grasp it with all his limited knowledge of physics lessons. He’s well aware they’re already living in a crazy futuristic setting what with the Amanto invading Earth all those years ago, but really? This is like some next level 3D projection technology, _dammit._

These are the same strings that were on TV just moments ago. This he concludes after seeing the state of Kabuki-cho street with his own two eyes. There are people running around doing things with ‘thin air’. Things like rolling the air into a ball in their hands, people following invisible trails, people _tripping_ over invisible trails. It’s a hazardous sight and as Gintoki experiences it himself the danger of something that is and isn’t there; hazardous for people around them. These _gifted people with rare sights_ , they disregard everything else in pursuit of the strings. People are all over the place, on incoming traffics, on dirty alleys, even on the roofs.

Well, it’s not exactly chaotic beyond compare. Just. _Dangerous_.

Gintoki grimaces at the sight because he himself sees his fabled red string all across Kabuki-cho. Wrapping on utility poles, on the dirty ground, in-and-out buildings, even making turns on some alleys. It’s a sight that makes his stomach churns and brings back his morning gnawing sense.

On another time, perhaps if certain things hadn’t preceded it, he’d be as curious as the rest of Edo. He’d be sniffing on his trails just like everyone, all wide-spread grin and lack of embarrassment. It’s natural to be curious about your fated person, right?

Gintoki just sports a constipated look.

He decides to steel himself and freelance for the day. Something that doesn’t require much braincells. Maybe that old man at construction needs a helping hand again.

* * *

Even in the afternoon, people are still all over the street. Gintoki makes his way home watching the chaos unfold with mild interest. It’s amusing to watch them, but disinterest quickly fills him up whenever his eyes land on those people. They all look stupid. By noon, he’s composed enough to be unfazed by the sight of his thread. He got another roof repairing job from the old man; it gave him a nice view of the entire madness. It also gave him a good view of the other roofs, of which he saw his strings pooling on the roof of a building three blocks away from where he was working. Something stirred in his mind but Gintoki immediately dismissed it.

He goes home, greets Shinpachi and Kagura, they eat dinner, Shinpachi goes home, he takes a bath, Kagura goes to sleep first. No thoughts, head empty, only mindless routine.

Gintoki tries another experiment in his bath. The result comes in and apparently, the thread can’t be wet. He does more experiments with making the string tangible and intangible through his palm. He focuses on this mindlessness rather than at the thought of the other end of his string. He’s not ready yet to think about it, he admits to himself as he gazes at this trail.

Because he has an inkling.

Fresh from his bath, Gintoki stares at the mess in his entire house, only visible to his own eyes. Chaotic really describes it well. _What an eyesore_ . It’s irritating, so he decides to roll the string into a ball. It turns into a neat ball pretty easily, Gintoki realizes. It gathers in his left palm while his right hand pulls and tugs them. Every now and then he finds the string to be stuck around some corners. It weighs like air, feels like holding nothing. A trail is still leading to the entryway, down to the outside, Gintoki leaves this one be. He chucks the ball of imaginary yarn into the corner of his bedroom. He pauses, before grabbing said ball again and tying a dead knot on each end. He imagines the ball getting kicked around unconsciously by him in the middle of the night or something, and his work would return to its original disarray. That would be _really_ troublesome. Gintoki chucks the tied ball back to the corner and then goes to bed.

Or so he thought.

It’s somewhere around midnight when he stares at that ceiling again, Gintoki doesn’t even want to look at the time. The moon shines through his window and Gintoki feels a tug. Not at his finger, but somewhere within his chest, like close to his beating heart. Maybe it _is_ his heart. And with that, he becomes restless. So much so that the silver perm head eventually gives up sleep altogether and changes into his kimono before stepping outside. The night is as dead as it should be.

Then he starts his journey, retracing just like everyone else did in the morning. With no one on the street, it becomes much clearer how haphazard his string is strewn about. No disruption, no one would give him a weird look for following an invincible thing; the strings became a glaring sight. It goes around the building, inside the building. It seems to tell a tale in its disarray, recounting _something_. He does the same thing like the section in his living room, though soon gives up when he sees it goes inside Snack Otose.

His feet carry him into the crooks of Edo, his mind wanders as well.

There are gaps between day and night, twilights, where the sun and moon exchange glances. Where one ends as the other begins, exchanging poignant greetings despite the sureness of a confident tomorrow. It’s polite, a promise is a promise after all. Certain in the way they meet, despite knowing their goodbyes all too well. Maybe certainty itself is uncertain, tomorrow will still come but who is to say that it will be you? Thus, we treat tomorrow like today, believing in the unbelievable. Where does he begin? Where does he end?

_If I tell you goodbye today, will you greet me hello tomorrow?_

What is he even thinking, tch.

Gintoki follows what he had torn apart. He has an inkling and it smiles knowingly, _arrogantly_ , because it knows what he denies. _Wasn’t denying_ . Justification seems intrinsic to him, because too many eyes have bore too many holes in him and he’s passed the point of asking why to just accept it. Acceptance needs reason. He swears he doesn’t care about proofs, and yet he found himself trying to justify his being all the time. He who contradicts. The street is empty and he’s a fixed point despite what others think. Despite what _he_ thought of him.

Something has happened, something has always happened, is happening—no, _not yet_. He needs more time. Halting is what he’s good at. He’s postponed his death enough times to be more than confident of tomorrow. This relentless cowardice he calls skill, whether it’s by avoiding or being avoided by death itself. He’s lived long enough to be here, hasn’t he?

The proof leading him to all his moments. He recognizes that rooftop after all.

But too many stars in too many galaxies, the night is young in tandem with his burning entropy. _What a drag_ . This knowingness, so _sure_ in its recognition when the samurai carries himself to the closed dango shop. Then to that old man’s snack bar. It glares at him, rather, when it wraps around the movie theater building. As Gintoki watches how it stretches over yonder, the string speaks of years in greetings. The samurai realizes how far it goes, far beyond Edo. Perhaps even at the carcass of Shouka Sonjuku. He doesn’t take the given hints; this tiny sense of _knowing_ , and Gintoki hates it with every fiber of life left in him. Gintoki doesn’t want to know where his string ends.

He’s hurt him enough.

* * *

Hijikata wears his heart on his sleeve; but he always wears his long coat, and if given the chance, he’d wear gloves all the time. He’s open while at the same time isn’t, in the way where instinct is his defense and there are walls upon walls built over time. And yet, to Gintoki, he’s _so_ easy. Exactly the reason he attracts Gintoki like a bee to a flower. It’s fun to see all the colors burst at the vice-commander’s seams, and it’s fun to let himself loose just as much. Hijikata riles Gintoki up. They fight and _fight_ , and lately they laugh as well. Thornies. It’s good, it feels equal, it’s the right anchor for someone unstable like him. With Hijikata, Gintoki feels tomorrow exists.

It was Gintoki’s fault that he miscalculated it, _what was he thinking_ , he didn’t even calculate it. They weren’t planets orbiting the same celestial body, both in this same path towards the glorious future, bound by some rotten laws; no—they were the very celestial bodies in orbit of each other, forever is their time limit but everything seems imminent with every time they inch towards each other, cataclysm awaits. Gintoki should’ve seen it; _ah_ , he did, maybe, deep down he _knows_ he did. But just as always, discarded it here and there. Because he cards only those that he wants to, picky, defensively so. Because he forgets what he cards, what he discards.

That’s why it’s cruel, isn’t it?

When Hijikata met him on that wooden bridge one evening with the moon shining ever so gently, a silent judge, lacking bystanders of a witness. Serenity came to mind. When there was familiarity and a little bit more in that ever-creasing look, Gintoki realized how cruel he truly is.

There was no twilight in those gun-metal blues, Hijikata doesn’t dwell on what is and isn’t after all. The man didn’t lean on the wooden railings like Gintoki, he stood rigid, composure held tightly like his life depended on it. Perhaps.

Hijikata is such an honest man.

“Do you believe in fate?”

_What’s with that question? What’s with this setting?_

It crawled under Gintoki’s skin and he tried to ignore the feeling by facing the river, eyes fixated on the reflection of the moon, swaying, rippling. Even a reflection seems to have its own glow, shining like a perfect twin. That kind of shine that is dangerous to his cruelty; a sonata.

_What’s with that honest tone?_

“No. Never.”

Hijikata relaxed and didn’t. The way he leaned his back on the railings with tense muscles spoke of a palpable contrast. His voice had an edge that was loud in Gintoki’s ears. “So do I.”

_How did they end up here in the first place?_

“Or did.” There was no billowing smoke in the air. It was crystal clear. “I hated it. Nothing good, only tragedy one after another. This kind of life, even I don’t want it on my enemy.” Self-deprecation is a common language to Gintoki. “But in the end, it led me to Kondo-san, that damn Sougo, Shinsengumi, her.” Senbei, the spiciest.

“It led me here as well.”

Don’t say it.

“Gintoki,”

No, not yet.

He wasn’t ready to be Gintoki yet.

He’s still cruel.

“I..”

Gintoki never heard the end of that sentence. Hijikata stopped once he realized Gintoki threw away his face. Everything halted for that single moment. It settled then and there. Whatever it was. Hijikata got his answer to his question, despite the nothingness of it, both lingered in the pristine air, devoid of smoke, devoid of something else.

Despite everything, Hijikata is still an honest man.

“…—d night, Yorozuya.”

Hijikata left nothing behind. There wasn’t any trail of his presence. The air was suffocatingly clean.

Gintoki recounted his cruelty.

* * *

“China.”

“Sadist.”

“Can we not do this here?” Shinpachi tries to be in the middle before the impending clash between the brats who know nothing but rampages. This is somewhere on the outskirts of Kabuki-cho, where there are fewer stalls and only a handful passersby. By pure happenstance, the Yorozuya trio encounters the Shinsengumi duo. Random, yet the setting is all too familiar, very much natural. Gintoki gazes elsewhere, it lands on the ground too many times already. Maybe it was biased happenstance. Those red threads might have beckoned him.

“Cut it out, Sougo. We’re on patrol.” There was smoke trailing when the duo left. All three of them watch them leave, those black uniforms getting farther and farther into the horizon.

“Come to think, we haven’t seen Hijikata-san in a while.” Shinpachi starts after the two Shinsengumi dogs are out of sight. The boy glances at the eldest.

“Hoo.”

Come to think, they really haven’t encountered each other in a while. A long while. It’s not like avoiding or anything; they’re adults, adults don’t avoid each other. They just happen to no longer cross each other’s path, he reasons. Busy minding their own businesses, as they should. They parted, just like before. It’s inevitable, right? The way they intersect doesn’t hint of a halting point; they just go on their ways. It seems. Gintoki looks over his trailing red strings. It’s a straight line just as much as the street has only one direction from where they stand. The end is no longer in sight, but he knows where it leads.

They don’t cross anymore.

This kind of new setting, that kind of path—Gintoki gives the string a tug.

“Gin-san?”

“Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t wait for a reaction.

* * *

A pack of sukonbu is thrown point-blank at Gintoki’s face.

“Gin-chan, happy birthday!”

“Wh—” Before Gintoki could react, he was tackled from two sides by the brats. They stumble onto the floor with Gintoki landing on his ass.

“Happy birthday, Gin-san!” Both Shinpachi and Kagura beam at him, all toothy grins. Gintoki’s heart doubles in size.

“Thanks, you two.” Gintoki returns their hug with one of his own, pulling the two closer. 

Gintoki ruffles both of their heads. His heart triples in size.

* * *

The day rolls without so much as a tumble. It pretty much goes downhill after the small cuddle pile from earlier in the morning. That was it, nothing else. Some people who know wished him the same tagline. No gifts in particular, just a couple of discount coupons as far as he has in his pocket right now. It’s dull. It’s always been dull. He moans about wanting presents when he’s in the mood, but honestly? He couldn’t care less. For all that he knew, the date could be false anyway.

He’s many things, he won’t get mad if you call him a hypocrite. He is one after all. The date means nothing, the gifts mean nothing. He says this to himself while he’ll gladly berate others who don’t cherish themselves. Gintoki is not an honest man.

He’s just out from the pachinko parlor, on his way home, when he sees the annoying red string trails somewhere nearby. Gintoki is well aware of the implication, knows the warnings like the one on the back of a medicine pack with the tiniest font you have to squint your eyes to read it only to find the text to be the same generic warning you’ve seen a million times. But, come on, _cut him some slack_ , they really haven’t seen each other in a long while now, have they? It’s not like they both said something wrong; in fact, _nothing was said_ —neither exchanged anything. If he has to be the bluntest of blunt, Gintoki left the conversation hanging like the drying squid rack on the beach near a stall that sells the smelliest dried seafood. So how come there’s a rift as big as the gorge in Ryuokyo already? From the sun to the moon, shouldn’t there be a gentle blur rather than this chasm of a distance?

Gintoki decides to follow his fate, just this once. Birthday discount in his pocket.

It’s a vending machine near an alleyway. The tobacco one. _Didn’t he say he quits?_ Wait, how long was that? That’s what, last year? Two years? Hell, he can’t reme—A sense of ‘Oh’ lodges itself somewhere near his chest cavity, quickly dismissed. 

Hijikata looks up to him when he hears Gintoki’s familiar footsteps; you cannot forget the sound of boots against pavement, it’s unforgettable. It is distinctly _him_. Hijikata argues that he looks up because he’s done with getting the pack of cigarettes and is about to leave the spot. Nothing more. Was it really that? Or was it just instinct to glance up whenever he hears that kind of combination? Hijikata’s eyes linger more on the boots, reluctant to face the owner, to be honest.

Neither exchanges much, Gintoki’s eyes finally land on Hijikata’s right hand. Such a simple knot; it never occurs to him that maybe he could untie it; that’s an experiment Gintoki isn’t sure he wants to try. He should’ve known it’s the Vice-commander’s day off as well. With a lit cigarette already fuming from his mouth, the man pockets the carton he just purchased off the machine. Hijikata ignores Gintoki when he inserts another coin into the machine, he presses another button, and takes out another carton. When what is thrown in his direction lands perfectly on Gintoki’s open palm, Gintoki couldn’t put a finger on this sense of relief. Blossoming out of nowhere and spreading so _disgustingly_ warm. It’s almost intoxicating. He mimics the other’s previous move by pocketing the Apollo chocolate pack in his kimono.

Gintoki should’ve known. That sadist brat knows as well, even his Gorilla leader knows. Sougo probably hints at it at Hijikata, but Gintoki likes to think that the man himself remembers it personally when one drunk evening they exchanged more than just nonsensical slurs. In between gulps of sake and alcohol-induced giggles, they got a little bit closer, knew each other a little bit better. Gintoki hopes the man remembers, he remembers Hijikata’s after all. 

“You’re off as well tomorrow?”

Hijikata doesn’t answer right away. Gintoki watches that right hand raise up to pick the cigarette in his mouth, lodging it in between his fore and middle fingers, nimbly. The Vice-commander is full of small gestures.

“Yeah.”

Autumn wind blows between them, settling in at their pause. It blows from Gintoki’s direction to Hijikata, and the silver samurai sees how it ruffles the Vice-chief’s jet-black hair. He sees that distant look in those eyes, refusing to meet Gintoki’s. He can see exhaustion written on that face, that serious face of the Vice-commander. That frown seems to never leave that face, for as long as he’s known the Demon Vice-chief, the way he stresses seems to be the only thing Gintoki knows of him. And yet, for one moment, Hijikata looks almost angelic to him. There is nothing divine about the sight of a man in their late twenties passing into his thirties standing in chilly weather breathing out smoke. Nothing ethereal, even the man’s moniker contradicts his exposition. But, Gintoki associates it with divinity nonetheless—and that’s when Gintoki realizes.

“Come to my place.” Even Gintoki knows there is an insult waiting at the tip of the other’s tongue already that is well accustomed to both of their ears. Some excuses attached, Gintoki deserves the rejection after what he’s put the man through. Nevertheless, Sakata Gintoki is thoroughly a dastardly man, reeks of gluttony. In every way a selfish bastard and he agrees with Hijikata’s usual insult to him (Just not the one about his sugar and hair). Thus, selfishly, Gintoki gives a tug on the string and watches Hijikata’s right ring finger twitch.

Something flashes in the Vice-chief’s face. Along with it, a new decision is made.

“Sure.”

Gintoki feels absolutely cruel.

* * *

He sends the kids out, despite Kagura’s incessant “Why? Why? Why?” and “But, Gin-chan, why?”. Gintoki shoves the kids out anyway, grumbling “I need to sort out some stuff.” under a breath while his “Go help Shinpachi’s sister with that Gorilla, that should be fun.” is spoken louder, and Kagura, bless that child, lets it slide and accepts the alternative. Shinpachi watches him with concern, they both do. And out they go, on their adventure to either make or break another love story.

He didn’t specify a time, so Gintoki has no say when it’s somewhere after dinnertime that there’s a knock on the front door. Three hours of sitting like an idiot staring at an unturned TV screen vanish the moment he hears that noise. Gintoki wastes no time answering it, in his haste almost tripping over nonexistent threads littered across the hallway. He curses, and then slides open the door, just in time with Hijikata’s pause for another knock. It is safe to say, neither of them expects each other to fulfill the agreement.

“You’re late.”

“You didn’t set a time.”

“Still late.”

Gintoki lets him in, walking towards the kitchen while motioning Hijikata to go sit in the living room. Hijikata does that after removing his sandals. Gintoki brings them a whole pack of canned beers, dropping them on the table with a grin.

“Ain’t that expensive for someone like you?”

“Been saving it for just this kind of occasion.” Hijikata doesn’t comment on that happy tone, nor does he with the hint of what they’re currently doing. It’s a thought that he doesn’t want to dwell just yet, too many implications. Bad for his heart. He hides himself behind a newly lit cigarette. Nicotine is exactly what you need to calm the nerves, especially in this kind of situation. Bad for his lungs.

Gintoki grabs two out of the pack, hands Hijikata one, and opens his own as he plops himself down next to the man. A crack then a sizzle; it’s been a while since Gintoki had beer, a canned one as well. It’s definitely the refreshing alcohol that’s settling inside him; with the bubble, rises as well the sense of nostalgia of all those times spent being idiots. Stupid things, their common language. Ah. They haven’t gone out drinking together in a long time.

“Drinking canned beer is just a different thing entirely, isn’t it?” He leans back on the cushion, a sigh following his gulp. Hijikata takes a sip of his own.

“What do you want, Yorozuya?” Hijikata doesn’t mince his words, it’s both blunt and sharp, lacking subtlety. How can something contradicting be so true?

Gintoki lets silence eat that question while he finishes his can of beer. Prolonging the inevitable, buying time as much as he can, just mulling over what to say, to be honest. He’s both prepared and unprepared. His mind couldn’t think of any other thing, the moment he decided to invite Hijikata into his apartment, his brain shut itself while spitting a mocking ‘Good luck.’. The only safety net he thought of is this pack of beers. In hindsight, very naïve of him to think it’ll actually loosen them up.

He opens another can and chugs it in the slowest fast that he can. What a way to describe nervousness.

Hijikata watches him only from the side.

“Do you believe in fate?”

Gintoki is cruel. Unbelievably cruel. Hijikata’s breath doesn’t hitch, but there is a definite pause before he answers, as if trying to swallow the entire universe first.

“No. Never.”

Gintoki puts down his beer to raise his left hand. Staring into something that doesn’t exist, is what Hijikata could decipher from that look. Those eyes are focused, thoughtful; far from the dead fish he’s accustomed to, familiar—at one point he had _missed_ them. A sense of knowing creeps within him. He’s heard of the news, has dealt with the insufferable citizens of Edo; the air feels tight for some reason now. Hijikata doesn’t want to hope.

“Then, I have a funny thing to tell you.”

There is a twang that resonates inside the police officer. It’s agonizing; how it vibrates from his core, all the way echoing to the tips of his fingers that are pressed on the aluminum can. Funny. It’s always been just _funny_ to him, isn’t it?

“I don’t want to hear it.” Hijikata denies himself the hope. It’s humiliating.

“I’ll show it.” The Vice-commander only watches as the silver haired samurai breaches their chasm in one bold leap. Why, when his mind wills it the most, his body won’t obey and _fight_. Why won’t it move, when everything inside him wants to run from whatever this is. Hijikata watches his body like a passenger in a car, only a witness.

 _Ah_ . That’s right, ever since he entered the other’s premises, he could only watch. Even on that bridge, Hijikata drew his conclusion through close watch. He’s always been just a bystander on the periphery, like everybody else. He’s no main character with outshining morale code and tragic backstory. He’s not the protagonist’s sidekicks, always ready to fill in the gaps in any kind of situation, China and Glasses are. Hijikata accepted this when they parted ways on that lonely bridge, had decided to finally come to terms with this one-sided gaze. He was fine with it, _finally_ fine. Why is it now that an alternative is provided— _hinted_.

Gintoki stands in front of him, then crouches so he could lean down to Hijikata’s level. What a sight, what a side; this kind version of the white demon twists Hijikata’s stomach. _Kind_ , is he? Really? Gintoki pries the beer off Hijikata’s hands and the officer lets his muscles pliant under those callous one. This hope is going to be the death of him.

It’s invincible. Just thin air, still thin air no matter how hard Hijikata squints his eyes. It’s either from holding back his tremble or trying to hope too much. Either way, he couldn’t see it. Gintoki holds Hijikata’s right hand with his left, then his right twirls something unseen around them. The Vice-commander feels it more than sees it. The phantom of threads being woven. Slowly, like fata morgana—maybe he’s hoping too much that it finally affects his eyesight.

Hijikata stares at the red strings wrapped around his right hand, tied to a knot on his ring finger. He couldn’t shake his eyes off it, couldn’t make those threads invincible again no matter how hard he tries. The thing is—that fate _bullshit_ isn’t just binding around his finger, hand, arm; it coils to his very being, inside, around his chest and feels like being choked to death by it.

Oh, what a cruel sight. This is his fate, isn’t it? Must be funny, _really funny_ —for the universe to play such a joke. He’s chased the man across the country, he repaid the favor with the Yorozuya, again and again, only to find himself being endlessly in-debt by this feeling that has taken hold of him ever since he met the silver samurai all those years ago. Realization came late, through a lot of time spent on his own trying to reconcile his mind and heart to come into one agreement. Time, distance, purpose, so many things stretched between them. When he came back to Edo, when that promised drink wasn't exactly on the right date, when it got delayed over two years—Hijikata has always been tethering on uncertainty. When he looked for him, optimistic he was at the samurai’s unchanging soul, even then his wavering self still was holding onto a single rope. But that moment when Gintoki threw away his face at his open and vulnerable heart, Hijikata had finally given up. 

He couldn’t stand this hope—this confirmation. And even if fate truly mocks him in the most pitiful way, what are the chance that Gintoki would still—

Is this pity?

This is pity. 

There’s a bile stuck in his throat.

“…at d’.. you.. ..want..”

He can’t face Gintoki.

“Hijikata,”

He swallows that bile, tries again.

“…what else do you want…”

Hijikata looks up at Gintoki and it’s worse than the one at the bridge. Gintoki has never seen that kind of expression—this _hurt_.

_Ah._

Right.

The thing he wants to say next, the request; he realizes how cruel it would be. Hell, the irony of him only _now_ realizing it. He’s the one who put Hijikata through all of these. _Wouldn’t wish it on my enemy_. If he asks him, Hijikata would just say yes. He would, wouldn’t he? Years of memories flashes before him, that gap he put between them, the chasm was his own doing. Hijikata told him to wait, he promised that he’ll wait, but evidently it was Hijikata that waited the entire time. The man who returned his lost bokken, again and again repaying favors that have long since been paid—Gintoki doesn’t even consider those as favors in the first place. How long—long enough, too long. Gintoki has forgotten yet again, something that Hijikata will never forget, he promised to remember, after all. 

Even apologies wouldn’t work, not even a thousand, not even if he utters it every single day for the next two years. No matter how sincere, this is already too cruel. Wouldn’t be fair to ask. Nothing will ever be.

What _else_ , he’s right.

Sakata Gintoki confesses of his cruelty.

He places his hand over Hijikata’s; in a way hiding the glaring thread from the other’s line of sight. What an annoying shade of red that is. 

“I can’t ask for your forgiveness. What I did to you—I can’t even forgive myself.” The thread judges his confession. “It’s not fair. Nothing will ever be fair.”

This is all that he could think of. He stands, Hijikata watches him walk over to his desk and opens a drawer, before returning in front of him again. Gintoki places a scissor on the table.

“Avoiding wouldn’t work, we both know. The string will still be there as a reminder.” Gintoki can’t bring himself to look at Hijikata, not when the man looks even more hurt than before. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but it’s worth a try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll try another way. Maybe untying the knot could work, I don’t know.”

He doesn’t look at Hijikata, not when he himself is holding back his own hammering heart. It’s suffocating; the strings, they’re binding too hard at his chest. It takes every ounce of him to not crumble on that very floor. But this choice, giving it to Hijikata—it’s the only way that he could think of, one that is truly fair.

And yet, Gintoki couldn’t stop being selfish.

“Just— _one last thing_ … I know,” Gintoki swallows his breath. “ _I know_ I have no place to ask you for anything anymore, but just this one.” He holds Hijikata’s hands, eyes focused on their clasping hands bound by this rotten thread.

“Will you believe in fate again?” Gintoki braves himself to look at Hijikata, but averts it back because nothing changes, he’s still _hurt_ . “I couldn’t believe it, honestly, I thought of the same thing from what you said back then. I was just a ghost, surviving, not living. Someone who couldn’t escape his past.” Whose past wouldn’t let him go. “But then I met Otose, I met the kids, I met people in Kabuki-cho, Edo, I met _you_. And just like you said, I agree, it’s worth it.”

Gintoki presses his forehead against their clasped hands, begging. “ _It’s all worth it_.”

Time must have stopped; it feels like it. When Hijikata pries himself away from that moment, peeling his hands from Gintoki’s, he could only watch the strings move, pooling underneath them. Hijikata leans and reaches for the scissor. Gintoki’s heart must have stopped as well.

He watches that scissor intensely, couldn’t let himself blink lest he misses it, whatever that happens next. Time must have really stopped, halting for Gintoki to watch his cruelty be punished, sentenced live on scene. Gintoki thought of karma, because all that is inside his head is nothing but looping pessimism. When judgement is upon you, yet you can’t help this part of yours that won’t stop screaming defenses after defenses. Trying to justify something that has already been justified. This is the end of Sakata Gintoki’s cruelty. After what he has put the man through, the lies he gave to this honest man. (Was it a lie? Was _nothing_ a lie? Gintoki couldn’t separate them now, too tangled up, just like those damn strings.) Even if he returns it, even if it is mutual— _now_ , who is he to say that Hijikata still harbors it? Time moves, so does the honest man who has been watching his back all this time. Even if Gintoki is more than willing to turn to face him now, isn’t it already too late? 

That’s why it’s no longer his decision. The only way that he could think of, because Gintoki has decided too much for the both of them all this time. Every one of those that lead them here, were nothing but selfish decisions made by the silver haired man alone. If it were to end, whatever it is that hasn’t started yet—Gintoki has no rights to decide anymore. If Hijikata decides to do it, then so be it. 

If. 

_God_ —what a hope. What a _damn_ hope. 

Every single reason stuck in Gintoki’s throat. The silent is deafening. His eyes follow the scissor flies across the room, through the door screen, over to the hallway. The sound of metal hitting the wooden floor announces its final landing place, it rings through the entire apartment, to his core as well. Gintoki stares at Hijikata with wide eyes. He’s so lost in his daze that Gintoki doesn’t really register it when Hijikata grabs him by the collar, pulling him up to finally face the raven straight. Those blue eyes look close to tears—no, ah—they’re _already_ in tears.

“Who would ever,” Hijikata hisses. “ _decide for that kind of fate_.”

For a moment it feels like an out of body experience; when Hijikata smashes his mouth against Gintoki’s, there is a split-second disconnect of reality and dream. Gintoki never openly admitted it, but on several occasions, he _did_ imagine what those lips would taste like. Watching that man from his sideline for the past years, it was natural to notice, to imagine. Will it be disgusting like the amount of mayo the bastard is always eating? Will it taste like inhaling smoke itself? Gintoki tastes beer, there’s no masquerading the bitterness of it. He’s not sure which one between the two of them; probably Gintoki since he drank two cans of it.

A sugar addict, self-proclaimed sugar-content king, but Gintoki finds himself chasing that bitterness desperately. He traps the Vice-commander on the sofa when his mind realizes what is happening. Gintoki deepens the kiss, gradually pushing Hijikata on the sofa until the man lies on his back. The other’s arms were already migrating from Gintoki’s collar to his neck, to his shoulder; pulling, a one-sided tug-o’-war.

This is their taste; sloppy and desperate, bitter with alcohol, sour from their differing addictions, and yet, _and yet_.

Gintoki pulls back, allowing both of them a gap to breathe. Those two cans don’t compare to the drunkenness he’s experiencing at the sight of Hijikata underneath him right now. His heart twists, to think that he’s the cause of that face. He leans down again to kiss the tears on Hijikata’s right eye, wiping with his thumb the left one. He’ll chase away those beads, each gesture a promise. The lowest, tiniest, softest, apology being uttered with it. Hijikata turns his face, catching Gintoki’s lips again to accept that apology with another kiss, no heat, just forgiveness.

Gintoki properly pulls back now, Hijikata watches him. Gintoki opens his mouth, tries to start, but nothing comes out. He blinks instead, unfocused but he can’t let his eyes off Hijikata’s. He’s said it already. He clamps up because he _really_ already said it; all his faults, nothing else will ever be fair, this undeserving heart—

Written all so clearly on that face. Hijikata reaches up and brushes Gintoki’s cheek with a thumb. When he speaks there’s a distinct hint of a smile, a small twist at the corner. “Ask me again.”

Gintoki swallows his heart that is beating too hard and too fast. He leans down, eyes locked with Hijikata’s. Always. 

“Do you believe in fate?”

Hijikata guides Gintoki to lean both of their foreheads together. Murmuring as he captures that lips again. 

“ _Yes_.”

* * *

Gintoki stares at the ceiling, eyes fixated on that old stain at the corner of the room. The more he stares, the more apparent it looks, as if it begins to spread across the entire ceiling, encroaching one slate at a time.

“I think there’s a similar one back in my room.” Gintoki glances at his side, at Hijikata who’s lying next to him, flush against flush, their shoulders are touching. Hijikata’s eyes are on the same spot as his.

Gintoki wants to blink, but his eyes seem to refuse the natural urge, seeming to be adamant that if they were to close, even just for a millisecond, this image right in front of them would be gone in an instant. So they refuse, or is it him that’s refusing—doesn’t matter, Gintoki wants this image of Hijikata by his side burned inside him ‘til his last dying breath, never to leave. Impulsive.

Impulsive that he is, the left hand sneaks up on its own to caress Hijikata’s cheek. The one being touched notices the gesture and begins to hue. Light, just a tint, nothing like the full-blown color from moments ago, where his ragged breaths were swallowed by Gintoki’s mouth, not letting any of that moans escape the door screens and walls because this Hijikata is for Gintoki and Gintoki only. He’s a glutton, greedy, selfish bastard.

“W-what’s with that look, oi..” despite his words, Hijikata lets Gintoki continue with his caressing. This side of Sakata Gintoki is just as rare, Hijikata knows. This knowingness written clearly in his face, their faces.

“Heh, you’re one to t—” Hijikata watches the grin falters from Gintoki’s face, watches that maroon eyes widen slightly as it no longer gazes against his, but rather at his own hand over Hijikata’s cheek. _What’s with that look, indeed._

“Gin—” Hijikata watches Gintoki raise his own hand, those eyes now staring at the thing that is no longer invincible. It no longer clutters, no longer trailing. It looks thinned, wrapped around Gintoki’s ring finger and tied like a knot in a splitting image of a pinky promise. Hijikata finds himself raising his own right hand as well, putting it next to Gintoki’s for comparison, for a match.

They stare at both their hands which are raised side by side, up high as if trying to grasp that silver light from the moon.

“Guess this means I don’t have to buy the rings, what a save.”

“You cheapskate.”

Their hands meet, fingers lacing, fitting like perfect puzzle pieces.

No words, because they keep tangling them, toying with them, sincerity always blurring. Gestures are their language, grounding. Today, tomorrow, it’s all the same to them now. As they lean closer, both finding it easier to smile. Now, only vows silently being exchanged between a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> ahahaha angsty stuff is my speciality ;) hope you guys like it. huge thanks to the sakunmit and nicomyrna for the wonderful artworks!! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Here's to Gintoki's birthday!!


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